


Burns and Bruises

by MetaAllu



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Erotica, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaAllu/pseuds/MetaAllu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TVs crappy, but TV's always crappy at two in the morning.  They watch infomercials and old sitcoms, and Dick feeds him three and a half bowls of soup, then turns off the TV and nudges him with his foot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burns and Bruises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazyjayblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyjayblue/gifts).



> Personal Disclaimer: The author of this fan fiction is unstable. Public availability/commentary has been disabled to assure continued enjoyment for both author and readers.

Jason grows used to the sounds of his shitty downtown apartment: The creak of the floors, the sounds of his upstairs neighbours screaming at each other at all hours, the tiny claws of the rat that lives in his bedroom wall skittering across the rotting carpet.  

He doesn't get used to the nightmares: Not the screaming voices, or the feeling of rope chafing against his wrists, or the sudden inferno of an exploding bomb; or dirt, and blood, and skin under his nails.  He doesn't get used to waking up in the dark with fear clawing its way up his throat, or rushing to the bathroom to vomit with the smell of burning flesh stuck in his nose.

Those are the nights he calls Grayson, who answers every time.  On patrol, or in bed, or — on one particularly memorable occasion — in the middle of a bust.

"Hey, Jay," he'll say.  "Your place or mine?"

Jason hangs up.

This particular night, Dick had been on patrol.  He comes up the rusty fire escape and slips in the open window.  Jason's smoking a cigarette in bed, but he still has one hand, and he's got a Colt M1911 cocked and pointed directly at Nightwing's face.  Dick blinks at him.

"Woah there, Jay," he says.  "Just me."

"Quit sneakin' in," Jason mutters, then he stuffs the Colt back in his nightstand and takes a drag of his half-burned cigarette.

"That's what you said when I came in the front door," Dick says.

"You ever hear of knocking?" Jason stubs the cigarette out in the ash tray by his bed as Dick appropriates his shower, stripping off his Nightwing costume as he goes.  The light flicks on — a sickly, blinking yellow — and then the water starts to run.  Jason waits until he hears the sound of water on flesh before dragging himself out of bed.  He goes into the bathroom and sits on the toilet seat.

There is no _What happened?_ , no _Do you want to talk about it?_   This is an old, worn road; and they both know the path they'll take, so they settle into the pattern.  Jason hands Dick a pair of sweats and a t-shirt when he finishes showering, and Dick invades his kitchen.  He makes Who The Hell Knows What soup, and he makes tea, and then he drags Jason into his small living room to watch television with the smell of soup wafting from the kitchenette.

Jason likes to call what Dick does an invasion, but he makes things homey and Jason can't really complain.  The soup's good, with corn, and egg, and probably chicken or something.  Dick has a key, and he just buys groceries.  It'd be really fucking annoying if it didn't mean soup.

TVs crappy, but TV's always crappy at two in the morning.  They watch infomercials and old sitcoms, and Dick feeds him three and a half bowls of soup, then turns off the TV and nudges him with his foot.

"Bed," he says.  Jason grumbles, half-asleep (which was Dick's plan all along), but Dick nudges him again, so he gets up and drags himself into the bedroom, which smells like cigarettes and sweat.

The covers have grown cold and slightly damp with stale sweat.  Dick lays in Jason's bed like he owns it — and actually this might be a new bed, so it's possible — and then he looks at Jason, waiting patiently.

The carpet is crusty from who the hell knows what under Jason's feet, and the mattress sinks under his weight, the wood of the bed giving a creaking sigh.  Dick's lips are dry, cracked.  They catch on Jason's, and his smile is contagious.

They slip down onto the bed together, and Dick's hands link together on the back of Jason's neck, pulling him firmly down.  Jason's fingers slides up under Dick's shirt, trailing over well-known paths and contours.  He silently counts the scars, checking for new ones.  Dick's warm under his fingertips; soft, and solid, and scarred.  He's not perfect — Jason doesn't believe in perfect — but if there was something that would get close, it would be Dick Grayson.

There's a bruise under Jason's fingers.  He pushes down, and Grayson mutters "Ow," and then he hits Jason's hip, scowling sourly.  Jason's loves Dick's frown lines, but not as much as he loves his laugh lines.  Dick sighs, exasperated, and then his hands slide to Jason's shoulders with a mischievous grin.

They go tumbling, twisting in bed until the covers are tangled around their ankles.  Jason loves the feeling of struggling for breath, the way Dick exhausts him and leaves him with no choice in the world other than submission.  Jason loves Dick's weight on his hips.  He's too heavy; it hurts, aches, and leaves Jason feeling relieved when his weight is gone; but there's nothing else like it in the world.

Jason's not in love, because he doesn't do love, because it's foolish and overdone; but there's nothing like Dick's mouth, hot and greedy.  There's nothing Dick's hands, sliding under his shirt, and into his pants.  There's nothing like that tongue, tracing wet lines along Jason's skin.  There's nothing like that voice in the dark when it says his name like a prayer.

Jason doesn't believe in god, but one day he'll find someone to thank.


End file.
